By the rivers of Babylon -- there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, "Sing us one of the songs of Zion!" How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? (Psalm 137:1-4).
The rivers of Babylon were the bitter waters of exile, the devastating waters of the diaspora. The Israelites were far from home, far from the holy mountain, far from the temple, the heart of their life, the sacred center of their existence. They were defeated, demoralized, depressed. The best they could do was to refuse to accept the vision of reality proffered by the Babylonians and cling to their own identity through memory.
How could we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land? If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither! Let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth if I do not remember you, if I do not set Jerusalem above my highest joy (Psalm 137:5-6).
They also did what most people do to make themselves feel better in such difficult situations -- they cursed! O daughter of Babylon, you devastator! Happy shall they be who pay you back what you have done to us! Happy shall they be who take your little ones and dash them against the rock! (Psalm 137:8-9).
Into that hopeless situation, our text introduces a new thing. "But now!" In contrast to the previous sins of Israel (Isaiah 40:2) and in contrast to the wrath and punishment of the Lord (Isaiah 42:18-25), now comes a new thing. "But now thus says the Lord." This new thing is to come about through the powerful word of the Lord. It is a word which forgives (Isaiah 40:2), which liberates (40:10), and which stands forever (40:8). It is a powerful word because it is the word of the creator God: "He who created you, O Jacob, he who formed you, O Israel" (v. 1). The reference, of course, is first of all to the creation of Israel as a nation. It was the Lord who took a wandering Aramaean and made of him a great nation, a chosen people. It was the Lord who ransomed Israel from bondage in Egypt, led them through the wilderness and into the promised land. This God is not only creator of the nation, but also creator of all living things, thus creator of the individual. It is a God who can speak to the heart of each of us as God's creatures. That same Lord now speaks to Israel in a new bondage with a new hope:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior (43:1-3).
Isaiah takes all the old memories, stories, and metaphors of the tradition and reuses them for this new situation. The formulas are those of exodus, deliverance, and covenant; "You are mine"; "I, Yahweh, am your God"; "I am with you"; "I have redeemed you." The picture drawn is that of a new exodus -- once again leaving captivity, surviving the dangers of water and fire, in order to reach home. Contrary to all appearances, Israel does not belong to Babylon. The Lord of all history and all creation is intervening on its behalf. The nations are nothing more than tokens with which God can ransom Israel from Babylon.
I give Egypt as your ransom, Ethiopia and Seba in exchange for you ... I give people in return for you, nations in exchange for your life (43:3b, 4b).
There is no limit to God's liberating power. Just as God can command the four winds, which are his servants (Psalm 104:4), so God can command the four quarters of the earth to give up their captives.
Do not fear, for I am with you; I will bring your offspring from the east, and from the west I will gather you; I will say to the north, "Give them up," and to the south, "Do not withhold; bring my sons from far away and my daughters from the end of the earth -- everyone who is called by my name, whom I created for my glory, whom I formed and made" (vv. 5-6).
This is the restoration of the people chosen and beloved by God. It is a beautiful, tender picture of what election is all about. This insignificant, uprooted, tiny band of men and women are assured that they are in the care of God, not because of who they are or what they have done, but because God loves them. Listen to the tender language of care: "I have redeemed you, I have called you by name, you are mine" (v. 1); "you are precious in my sight, and honored, and I love you" (v. 4). This covenantal faithfulness on the part of Yahweh leads to salvation for all, for "everyone who is called by my name," for "everyone whom I formed and made" (v. 7). Everything comes full circle, sinners are forgiven, prisoners are set free, exiles get to go home. This is all to the glory of God, for this was the purpose of the very creation of this people, "whom I created for my glory ..." (v. 7). The exilic journey of Israel is a paradigm of the baptismal journey of the Christian. It begins in exile, in bondage to sin, in helplessness. Like the Israelites, we live in a foreign land under the rule of foreign powers. Nationalism demands that we put government, its policies and practices, its weapons and wars, beyond the judgment of a sovereign God. Materialism and marketing convince us that the good life is found in things consumed, not in things believed. Individualism insists that we look out for ourselves and demand our entitlements, with no regard for the common good. Technology teaches us that we can control the world for our own purposes and immediate needs. This is an exilic tragedy; and the most tragic part about it is that we often do not see that we are in exile. Like some of the Israelites, we have made our home in Babylon, opened shop, hung out a shingle, and become a part of the empire. We are deserving of God's wrath. We have become enemies of God. "Was it not the Lord, against whom we have sinned, in whose ways (we) would not walk, and whose law (we) would not obey?" (Isaiah 42:24). As such, God becomes our enemy, leaving us in our blindness and emptiness, giving us just what we asked for -- goods rather than goodness, the crusts of consumerism rather than the bread of life. In our exile, will we come to our senses? Will we grieve our loss? Will we be able to recognize that we are clean cut off? Given our hollow lives, our crumbling families, our cultural wasteland, and our decaying cities, it is time for us to admit our helplessness and grieve our loss. We have worshipped at idolatrous shrines, spent our money for bread which does not satisfy, and used each other as stepping stones on our way to the top of the heap. Having led such a shallow existence based on such poor values, we have nothing to fall back on when the real tragedies of life occur. Then, like Israel, we weep and complain: "My way is hidden from the Lord, and my right is disregarded by my God" (Isaiah 40:27). Then, we stretch out our hands in despair, but there is no one to comfort us (cf. Lamentations 1:17). We need to look honestly at our situation. We need to acknowledge our sinfulness. We need to stand under the bright light of Christ's judgment. John the Baptist made that clear in his preaching about Jesus:
He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and with fire. His winnowing fork is in his hand, to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his granary; but the chaff he will burn with unquenchable fire (Luke 3:16b-17).
But that was only a part of Jesus' ministry. He identified with our lost condition. He went down into the waters of baptism himself. He was baptized with the baptism of fire, with the baptism of his own suffering and death. It is into that death that we ourselves were baptized, and by that baptism we were set free from the power of sin and death. Just as Israel returned to the traditions of the past, the exodus and the covenant, for hope and reassurance, so we must return to our baptisms for the faith and the courage to carry on. In his Large Catechism, Martin Luther says that we must learn to draw comfort and strength from our baptism. When we are afraid or depressed, when we feel guilty or worthless, Luther says we must retort: "But I am baptized. And if I am baptized, I have the promise that I shall be saved and have eternal life, both in soul and in body."1 Luther calls baptism both a treasure and a priceless medicine, which makes us whole, swallows up death, and saves us. Baptism is a great comfort, but it is also a great challenge. In his Small Catechism, Luther tells us that going under the water in baptism and coming out again signifies "that the old person in us should be drowned, together with all sins and evil lusts, by means of daily contrition and repentance; it should be put to death, and it signifies that a new person should come forth daily and rise up, cleansed and righteous, to live forever in God's presence."2 Our whole life, then, is a renewal of our baptism. It is a growing into our baptism. It is a becoming what we already are, by baptism. This is our journey out of exile and into the promised land. It is challenging the principalities, speaking truth to power, living by God's resources alone. It is the way to life and freedom, but it is scary. If we remember our baptism, however, we will have the assurance:
Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior (vv. 1-2).
1. Theodore G. Tappert, ed., The Book of Concord (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1959), p. 442.
2. Ibid., p. 349.